Trade Violets for the Ocean
by Laenyra
Summary: Aerion Targaryen, great-grandson of Aerion Brightflame, has been hidden by House Velaryon for fifteen years since Robert's Rebellion. When Daenerys is wed to Khal Drogo, Aerion is sent to offer the aid of the Velaryons to her brother's cause but as their paths shatter and mend beneath them Aerion will take matters into his own hands, severing the puppet strings that held sway.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Just a quick note, the current summary is temporary until I can rewrite it**

* * *

**DAEMION**

283 AC, two weeks after the Sack of King's Landing

It was neither the warmth of the morning nor the cries of crows that woke Daemion but the large, calloused hand that dragged him from under the covers by his wrist. A sharp cry of pain leapt from his throat. His legs became tangled in the heavy covers as he tried to kick out and fight. The force of the pull felt like his attacker was trying to rip his arm off. Daemion cried out for the guard placed at the door for his protection but when he heard no rushed footsteps, his heart ached with worry and his stomach churned.

The man grabbed hold of Daemion's upper arms and threw him to the ground; hard. He's been thrown around before –even now that he is ten– by other older squires and on the rare occasion by the knight he's squiring for, Ser Jaime Lannister, but never so violently. The air in Daemion's lungs was knocked from him as he hit the ground, leaving him breathless and gasping.

His eyes grew wide as he struggled to crawl to his hands and knees. The man's booted foot met him halfway and connected with his ribs. Tears pricked at his eyes as he felt the biting pain and he squeezed them shut, wishing to not show his attacker a weakness like tears. Daemion's mind whirled and ached with shock. He hadn't felt this way the night before when men ran with swords gleaming like rubies. He longed for those frantic thoughts at the sight of Lannister gold embedded in the king's back instead of this reverberating ache.

The man grunted as he pulled the boy off his feet by his throat. Daemion cracked open an eye and once his vision cleared he found a pair of familiarly hated eyes. A wave of grief plunged him into a void of disbelief and despair at the o so obvious answers before him. Daemion's resolve vanished as the hopelessness of his situation became clear.

_You promised me,_ Daemion nearly choked out. _You promised to keep me safe from him. You gave me your word. . ._

Gregor's eyes narrowed as Daemion clawed at his slowly tightening fingers, starving him of air. His companion, not nearly as tall or strong as Gregor, stalked forward from his spot in the doorway. Daemion knew him before he opened his mouth and spoke in his high voice.

"You could not honestly think you'd be safe in the northerner's hands. He admitted to be sheltering you from His Grace, Robert Baratheon," Lorch scoffed with a smirk. He stood at Gregor's side looking up at the struggling child whom held the title of prince days before. He smirked sadistically.

Beneath the pained tears anger flickered in his eyes. Daemion didn't want to believe the cruel man -the northerners were truthful men and the man had told him that he'd be protected. A stir in his gut reminded him of his coherent and fair thoughts chased in circles by nipping barbed doubts. He wasn't thinking sharply during the sack and could have made dozens of mistakes he otherwise would have caught before they even came about; clearly trusting the Northman was one them.

"He said there was no where else for you to be but I disagree," Lorch jabbed his finger at Daemion's face with sudden sparked hatred. "_You _should be fed to the crows, passed around by the soldiers and sucking their cocks or kneeling before the seven kingdoms with your head lopped off."

Daemion thought of things he'd heard from men and managed to choke out, "Go fuck yourselves." The words sounded foreign as he spoke. As soon as they left his throat Clegane's fist collided with his jaw and released his grip on Daemion's neck. Daemion crumpled to floor, ears ringing and dazed. His gasps were loud and rapid. He laid there, wracked by agony, while Clegane and Lorch cast shadows over him.

An acrid taste crept down his throat. _Blood_, he thought. He found quickly that two of his teeth had been knocked out by the man. Over the ring in his ears he heard Lorch snort.

"My Lord Lannister orders you be taken before the king's court," Gregor growled between his teeth.

"Or I could kill you now and save them the trouble," Lorch almost murmured, his jaw set.

"You will not. Stark would demand for your head or hands."

"Or Robert would have his for harbouring this bastard, he had to of known a man of his had him," Lorch grunted before grinding his heel into Daemion's limp hand. The shrill yelp that tore through his throat left it aching and sensitive. The guffaw that sounded from Lorch as he stepped through the doorway stirred the already broiling fury in his chest.

Clegane took a handful of Daemion's silver hair and dragged him from his room of safety and past the sad eyes of the women, several pleaded and negotiated while others cursed the men. "The gods damn you for raising your hand against a child," a woman shouted.

"And my foot," Lorch called back too gleefully.

After the street of silk most everything was pillaged and in ashes. The chaos of the sack hadn't yet been cleared from the poorer districts as was evident by the sun-baked bodies piled high in carts waiting to be carried off. The air was thick with the heavy, acrid odor of rot and ash. Daemion couldn't tell if he could taste bile or the foul stench in the back of his mouth and nearly retched. No crowds formed as they dragged him kicking and cursing through the streets, there were only glances and curt nods or solemn shakes of their head. Many women sat and wept in alleys, shaking as they tipped liquid -likely moon tea- down their throats. Children may have stared longer had their parents not scolded them for doing so.

Commands and screeches were heard as the main gate opened for them. The Red Keep had always been his home, from as early as he could remember, but now it was likely to be his prison. As they entered the courtyard two men dressed in Lannister crimson were quick to manacle his wrists; they paid no heed to his mangled fingers which sent shots of pain through his hand. Clegane was surprisingly swift through the halls of the keep to the throne room where hundreds of lords and ladies stood and judged who they deemed criminals.

The booming sound of the doors echoed through the throne room and his heart felt as if it were cracking his ribs in its attempt to break free of his chest. A struggling man with fair hair was escorted past Daemion by three guards bearing scarlet cloaks. The man roared profane threats and curses at the court as the men pushed him forward. He kicked out and pushed against the guards and managed to face the open doors and Daemion. Daemion flinched at the raged eyes and red face of the knight.

"Father," Daemion whimpered disbelievingly. His struggles ceased as shock as heavy as iron set in his limbs.

His father's eyes fell to him, instantly brimming with anguish. He threw himself against the guards with sudden, frenzied force only a desperate father could deliver. He would have broke from their grasp in moments had a guard not slammed the hilt of his blade against Daemion's father's temple. The blow sent him down instantly. Clegane's fist tightened once more around Daemion's hair and he hauled the boy behind him towards the throne. Daemion screamed words he didn't know he knew and fought against the mountain of a man until a final, mighty tug was given and Daemion was thrown forward on his knees.

"You fuckers let us go!" Daemion's eyes shot directly to the man sitting the throne. A Baratheon, black-haired and blue-eyed, stared down at him, condescending as any man to sit that throne. But this man's eyes held more than just condescendence, they held a hatred that could not be rivaled. Looking at him now Daemion began to understand the reputation that followed the usurper; incredibly tall even as he sits, thick arms and strong hands.

Lorch clouted him on the back of his head. The man couldn't have cared for Daemion's words against the king, he was just cruel.

"Mighty words from a broken boy," the king responded in a voice much gruffer than Daemion expected. He had felt like he was the most clever among his friends with his witty remarks and sarcastic comments, but that had all been simple fun, not this tiptoeing around the king's justice.

His mother insisted on his studies. Before she allowed him to run off and watch steel clash he'd sit for four hours everyday learning the history, laws, nobles and geography of Westeros. "Your mind and words are just as fatal as the sword in your hand. Hone the mind and the blade will have the edge of Valyrian steel," she'd tell him if he'd complain. He'd hated her, oh how he hated her, but he found an interest at last in Targaryen history. The wars, the treacheries, the dragons, he stashed as much as he could in his memory and, on occasion, he would morbidly hope for a war to break out so he could prove his valor to his king. Fate had an interesting sense of humor Daemion found, as his mind presented itself higher than any skills he'd learned in sweat and dirt. "Boy genius" the court called him.

From the lessons he could call to mind as he knelt there, he knew the ways and happenings of the defeated's fates. He loved this part of the story, always had, especially when his Father told it.

Strung up, aching and surrounded by rebels as he is he can hope for a single thing, that the sword will sharp and swift.

"If you don't like my words cut off tongue or my head, at least I wouldn't be able to hear your traitorous words," he spat. The stench hit hard as bull. He gagged and coughed violently. He hadn't taken his eyes from Robert since they entered but he saw the bodies now, wrapped in the red of their blood. "What have you done," Daemion gasped as he looked upon his distant cousin's face. Her dark hair was matted by clumps of dried blood, her face ashen and her eyes were as distant and pained as a ghost's. He could only presume that the wrapped bundle next to her was her brother; and the last red bundle, its contents were barely visible but what he saw was enough. Silver hair slicked with gore and voids for sockets. . . he knew.

"Put an end to his dragonspawn," Robert said to him, poison strung each word to the next.

Unbidden tears pooled in his eyes and blurred his vision, they smothered his fire, his will, his hope. He had hoped and prayed to negotiate with Robert Baratheon and perhaps enter his court as his ward. He had hoped and prayed for his brother and sister's lives be unchanged. He had _hoped_ and _prayed_, but when have the gods answered a dragon boy's prayers?

And so he sat there, hundreds of eyes upon him, as they read off the charges he could not recall ever hearing before, but they must exist because they sounded so real that every word left a new thorn in his side. _How many laws can a ten year old boy break, _he wondered, head hung and eyes shadowed. _Plenty apparently._

XXX

The black cells were a fantastic place to think on all the things you have not done wrong, Daemion found. The absoluteness of the dark gave way to new thoughts bred from a malicious brew of resentment, isolation, despondency and pain. Time did not seem to pass. Not unless you counted the times he slept, then time passed, but how much time was never certain. Perhaps a day had passed every time the guards threw him scraps of bread, or perhaps two. If he were to depend on the latter he'd been in the cells for little less than a fortnight.

He hadn't seen his father since he was dragged off to the cells and Daemion could only presume they had executed him. _They wasted no time with killing Aegon and Rhaenys and Aerion, why do they bother keeping me here? _he wondered as he broughlt a stone down against another. To be honest he had no clue if it was a rock or a bone he was pounding on; for that matter he didn't know if it was a stone he holding, nor did he care, it just gave him something to do. He contemplated whether he'd share the same fate as the man who once had this 'bone'. _It would be less shameful…_

The torchlight stormed in fending off the darkness like truly noble knights. His fingers tightened around his makeshift weapon. His retreat was graceful by no means, he nearly tripped over his own feet and his legs almost gave out on him from misuse. His muscles and ribs ached from the beating at the brothel. The glow stung his eyes despite his clenched eyelids, waves of hot throbbing coursed through his skull.

"Be at ease young lord, it is but a lowly spider," a voice said softly, sounding almost as sweet as the owner usually smelt. Daemion only smelt earth and piss now, not entirely because of the cell. The light lowered. He opened his eyes one at a time, squinting before the bright patches disappeared. A skin of water was held out before him.

"Last time a man told me that, I woke and had my fingers broken," Daemion growled.

Varys clicked his tongue and pulled the water skin back to himself. He was different; soiled, brown rags clung to his limbs and he smelt of Flea Bottom. He probably walked with a limp to add to his disguise. "Then those words were common lies to the both of us. Strange we were both betrayed so young."

Daemion's legs trembled beneath him from his own weight, he cursed himself as he slid to the dirt reluctantly. "What could you possibly mean," Daemion groaned, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes.

"The man who protected you, he confessed to harbouring you the morning you were found in that brothel, he was granted his life but for the Watch." Varys explained as he buried his hands in his sleeves. "The mummer troop I was with- well you know that story already. Trust no one my lord, no one but yourself."

"Why do you tell me this when I have no use of it, unless you plan on releasing me? My mother Shaerys died a year ago, my father is surely dead, I am destined to die here, my sister is on Driftmark and Aerion is dead because I trusted you with his life and you betrayed that. Are you here to mock me with your cruel lesson?" Daemion's throat began to burn and rasp. When was the last time the guards turned up? Two days ago? Three? He hadn't had water in a long while it felt.

Varys was unmoved by Daemion's emotions. "Not all is lost; not your brother."

Daemion is quick to retort, "Do not lie to me Lord Varys, I saw him wrapped in a Lannister cloak, eyes gouged out; and right beside him were Aegon and Rhaenys."

"I have no reason to lie to you Daemion." Varys knelt in front of him, hands folded. His voice showed no signs of remorse or concern, it held more of a tone that reminded him of his maester, always asking him questions as if he knew the books word for word. "Know that Aerion lives and take my word for it."

Daemion shook his head. "How can I? You just told not to trust anyone."

"Ah but that is the thing with trust, it is a double edged sword. Put too much trust in too many people and you are throwing away your value, but trust no one and your suspicions will flare with every word," Varys explained with fluent motions of his hand.

"Your _advice_ is a double edged sword," Daemion muttered. He tried clearing his throat which only aggravated the raw flesh into a flaring irritation.

Varys pushed the small water skin into his hand. "You should drink."

Daemion glared at the leather. It was cool as the liquid sloshed around inside. "And what, prolong my death. Don't get me wrong I love life, I just know what they plan to do with me. Absolutely nothing."

"People say you're a child genius, that you are too smart for your own good. I believe they're right. You knew what would happen as soon as the gates were opened," Varys said with a sigh and pressed his lips into a thin line.

"I've never been a child, you said so yourself once, I've known things for too long to ever have been a true child like my brother." Daemion admitted with a small shrug. He stretched his legs out from underneath him with a groan. "Robert Baratheon won't execute me publicly, that would be too shameful, no he'll let me rot here then blame illness for my death to appease the masses."

Varys raised the torch as he stood. No words formed on his lips as the spider crept for the oak and iron door. He knew as well as Daemion of the repercussions that would spread throughout the realm, they would more than likely cost the Baratheon lord the crown he had just stolen. They had like minds, calculating, deviant. Varys's recent fondness for riddles originated with Daemion.

"How?" Daemion asked before Lord Varys could heave the slab of wood open. "How did you save Aerion? Why did you. . ." Silence followed between the two as Varys planned his words.

"I do suppose it's time; I serve the realm my prince, and what's best for realm is the Targaryens." Varys's lips twitched at Daemion's chuckle. "Your brother has arrived in the new Valyria. How? Well, I traded violets for the ocean." Varys adopted his disguise once more and the black curtain fell around Daemion once more.

It was long -possibly days- after Varys left Daemion mulling over his final riddle when the ring of mail entered his cell. His mutters continued as the man stepped closer to him. Daemion was hunched against a pillar supporting the low ceiling, greasy and wild eyed.

"A gift," the man said with a sneer. He rolled the so called gift to Daemion across the cell. Daemion moved nothing but his eyes to catch the thing that rolled in front of him. Bloodied and pale, his father Ser Vaenar Targaryen stared up at him with dull and glazed eyes. The door shut with a resonating bang, the sliding lock screeched as it slid into place at last.

A warm energy glowed in the corner of his eye. They darted hungrily towards the light, anything to take him from his father's dead gaze. Flames licked at the red dragon in the dark, engulfing it like the beast it was. Daemion watched the silk turn to ash and he thought, d_ragons should not burn._

**XXX**

**MONFORD**

283 AC, two days after the Sack of King's Landing

The egg shimmered and gleamed as if gilded with pale gold and silver and crusted with flakes of rubies.

"It was my great grandfather's, Aerion Brightflame. When he died his wife took it as her own before King Maekar or Aegon could take it and try to hatch it. Since then it's been passed down Aerion's line unbeknownst to the kings," Laerys explained with a small giggle. Monford could see the pride in her eyes, they sparkled as bright as the setting sun on the sea's horizon. The princess sat cross legged on the window seat overlooking the yard where even now retainers bustled about. The egg sat cradled in her lap with her slender fingers brushing its surface. "Father doesn't know I have it," she murmured thoughtfully. Laerys seemed entranced by the scaled treasure for her gaze did not falter from it.

_Having a dragon egg to call your own is something to be proud of,_ Monford thought as he admired the egg from his spot at the hearth. He leant back against a chair. _With the dragons long gone from the world people would kill to be graced with an egg..._ Worry finds him then and his mind begins to race, worry not for the egg but for Laerys.

It was her twelfth name day. Monford had arrived from King's Landing days before with his mother; Laerys', his betrothed, being the reason he was not with his brother Jacaerys father Lucerys, Master of Ships. The celebrations had been small but Laerys didn't seem to mind, to his and his uncle's relief. The rebellion had made it difficult for any given amount of people to be joyful for a princess for a night; fathers, husbands and brothers were with Prince Rhaegar at the Trident cold and rotting and the pain of fear left an ache in everyone. But there _had_ been a great meal and music and dancing where they could pretend to be fearless and to sing the song of drunkards. Given the circumstances his uncle, not entirely sober himself, allowed Monford and Laerys more than a few cups of wine. The wine alleviated the iron grip she had on her composure. She wept in his uncle's arms during a dance meant for a father and daughter. The night ended with her dragging Monford from the hall with the promise that she'd show him the secret she'd kept from him since her arrival on Driftmark.

"Father planned to give it to my brother Daemion after I left for here." She grinned and hopped from the window gracefully. She twirled, her arms outstretched, and cheered in a singsong voice, "But who has it now!" Monford watched her dance about before her eyes snapped to him. "So don't tell," she said, a threat laced into her tone.

"So long as you don't," Monford said with a shrug.

Laerys went still mid spin, her cobalt dress swished by her bare feet, and narrowed her eyes, suspecting his words held a different meaning. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He sat up. "I'm just saying that the more people that know you have a dragon's egg the more danger you put yourself in. Sell it to the right person and you'd live without a care for the rest of your days, there are plenty of men who'd murder a princess to do so."

"Oh, you do care for me," she cooed before giggling again.

"I never said that, I just don't want my eyes gouged out by Vaenar the Vicious when I step foot in King's Landing again," he replied coolly. He turned back to the dying flames in an attempt to hide his smirk. The heat warmed his skin to a point of feeling burnt but he didn't care, he welcomed it; heat was the only thing keeping him from sleep.

"I'd have half a mind to dash this against your head Monford Velaryon." Laerys said considerably closer than she had been. He looked up towards the ceiling and found her leaning over him. Her silver-gold hair formed curtains that fell past his ears. She smiled at his smirk and laid a kiss on his forehead. There was a clamor in the yard below but he paid it no heed. "But I don't want to ruin my betrothed's face."

She turned away from him then and skipped to her window seat, humming a strange tune. The silk swayed with smooth grace with her movements. Monford watched the young lady. She was undoubtedly a Targaryen, long silver hair and violet eyes said that much, but she had a beauty of her own. He had heard many mutter that she wasn't nearly as appealing as most Targaryen princesses and queens and he supposed that might be true; but he still saw her beauty despite their qualms with the future Lady Velaryon.

The steady crackle of the flames filled the chamber. The peaceful sounds of the fire and waves clawing for the land started to lull his drowsy mind, he startled himself several times when his head would lurch forward and wake him. He groaned as he stood.

Laerys broke the simple silence. "It's good to know you're frightened by my Father."

A knock at the door came not even a moment later. "My lord, my lady, it is Maester Broden. May I speak with you?" The old man's croaky and worn voice sounded from behind the door. Laerys was quick and quiet as a snake to bury the egg in silk pillows on the window. She took the spot next to the hidden egg and nodded, satisfied.

"Of course Maester," Monford said politely. He gripped the iron handle and hefted the door open. "Done drinking away your sorrows," he japed. The maester did not enter but stood in the doorway. He was a shrunken man of seventy-two. The wisps of gray hair still attached to his head float and fall back into place with every movement. His eyes had begun to droop with age years ago but they remained sharp and attentive.

"If only it could young lord," Broden said, sighing. "But I'm afraid no amount of wine could quell the news I bring." Monford's contentment faltered and faded with the maester's words. Laerys was at his side in an instant at the turn in mood, her own face shadowed with concern.

"What news?" Laerys asked. She started to pick at her nails as her nerves tensed. The ever worsening rebellion loomed over them at all times and it became natural to think that all the news the Maester had was of the war.

Broden bowed his head slightly, avoiding her eyes. "I am grievous to say. It is a tragedy my lady. The message has just arrived-"

"What news maester?" Her voice was iron. Her eyes narrowed as the old man squirmed. Maester Broden fingered and tugged at his chain as he tried to find the proper words.

He hesitated. "The Lannisters have sacked King's Landings and there is no word of your lord father or brother Daemion but Aerion- he is here." He put a hand on Monford's shoulder solemnly. "Monford, your brother is gone."

The princess was a rush of silver and blue. Courtesies hung forgotten as he sprinted after Laerys. Her dress did nothing to hinder her speed, his calls for her fell on deaf ears as her grief and fear came to a boil. She knew where to go and would stop for nothing to get there. Drunken men hooted and shouted at the two as they passed, many had grins planted on their faces and a serving girl at their side or pressed against the wall. The grins served only as a cruel joke to remind him of the fresh sorrow. Laerys did not seem to notice the men and pushed on.

The Tide Hall's oak and iron doors were swung wide into the courtyard, welcoming everyone with a warm embrace. Music and cheers poured into the yard with such passion and vigor that Monford wished he hadn't left. The news would have surely found him but his senses could have been too dull to register their direness until the morrow. With a heavy heart he turned his eyes from the joviality.

The guest tower, commonly called Spice Tower for its facing towards Spicetown's ruins, did not lay far from the hall. The gray stone shone in the night sky as the moon's light sparkled in each raindrop that still clung to its side. It was not a very tall structure but striding up the steps took the breath from his lungs.

Laerys halted at a doorway familiar to them both, breathless. Three Velaryon guards were stationed at the door, clad in silver and deep blue armor. They parted with a solemn nod. Laerys did not make a move towards the handle.

"I am afraid Monford," she whispered.

"For what Laerys? Your brother is here, just behind this door." He took her hand in his and kissed the top of her head gently. His heart ached, for the both of them. Brothers and fathers were lost to them both. He had never thought, never dreamed, of having to cope with devastation.

"I am afraid of what will become of him, they will search for him and try to. . ." she couldn't finish her thought and trailed off.

Monford placed his hand on the surface of the door and pushed. "They won't, I promise you they won't," he lied. _They will search for the boy and when they find him here, they will slaughter every last one of us._

The heavy door fell open with a slight creak, announcing their arrival. The chamber was a smaller room than the others but still comfortable and respectable. The space was alight with the glow of many candles and the moonlight streaming in from the lone window. Two blue velvet chairs sat near the hearth, both of which were occupied. Monford's mother sat facing the flames in the hearth, shadows danced across her face making her appear twice as old and thrice as weary than the truth was. Naera, his great aunt and Laerys and Aerion's grandmother, did not take her sea-green eyes off the boy curled up in the bed as they entered. His uncle leaned on the edge of a table, staring intently at the drapes, his eyes were slightly glazed in thought. Neither woman spoke until Laerys stepped toward her brother, a whimper escaped her lips.

"He is sleeping sweet one," Naera whispered softly. "Best not wake him." The old woman took Laerys' hands in her own. The tenderness in her actions and tone hid the steel beneath; if Monford had not known Naera and the rumors that buzzed behind her he would have thought her a simple, doting grandmother. She was a woman of at least sixty years with wrinkling skin and a gentle face. Her hair was once Valyrian silver-gold but now it was as white as the moon.

Laerys huffed, "But he's my brother and he needs-"

"He needs to rest." Monford's mother affirmed. Her voice revealed nothing; no anguish, no shock, no torment. Unease burrowed itself in his gut. She wasn't responding to them as Monford would have thought. "He scarcely recognized your grandmother and only closed his eyes when Ser Darreth was with him." It was only then that Monford noticed the armed man leaning against the wall near the window. His looked to be asleep, his head was hung and his eyes were shut but they shot open when he was mentioned. He was a household knight, that Monford knew, but he could not have put his face to his name if asked.

Darreth had been among Monford's father Lucerys's household men moved to King's Landing when he was appointed Master of Ships to Aerys. His family had lived in the capital for the past three years; him, his father, his mother and his own one year old brother, Jacaerys. The man was usually assigned to his father so Monford never truly saw him much.

Aerion Targaryen laid curled up in the blankets of the huge bed across the chamber, back facing them. The two year old's hair was a mess of matted, greasy curls smudged brown. He seemed so much smaller amid the lavish covers, they had been pulled up to cocoon his body. It was cruel. Her brother was right in front of her eyes and she could not so much as touch him for fear of startling him.

Ser Darreth stepped forward and explained their ordeals with a husky voice. "The city's first warnings were screams and smoke, not the bells. I could not honestly say they had been rung once for I never remember hearing a toll. The Lannisters were quick to reach the Keep. At the time I had been with Lord Lucerys as he discussed the Battle of the Trident with Varys when one of the first attempted to kill us. I slew the man quickly but Varys disappeared in that time." Ser Darreth turned to Monford, his face grim. "Your father ordered me to retrieve your brother as he left with Ser Vaenar.

"The nursery was a battleground of its own. I do not wish to speak of what I saw, but simply I found Princess Elia and her son mutilated, I can only imagine what was done to Rhaenys." He addressed Monford and his mother and uncle then, "my lords, my lady, Jacaerys was slaughtered; his eyes had been gouged out."

Monford's mind snapped instantly. Out of his senses he rid the table of the porcelain dishes with one fell swipe of his arm. They shattered into shards of white and gold rain on the cold stone. Monford found himself glaring at the child with such animosity that his blood boiled. His ears pounded and his skin burned. Monford's anguish beat down the pleas of sanity and his body moved on its own accord towards Aerion. Strong hands gripped his upper arm and wrenched him back mid stride. Monford whirled around, teeth bared, purple eyes ablaze. His uncle scowled down at him, his eyes alone gave Monford a warning. He was not his father but his uncle frightened Monford more than his father ever had.

With a grunt he jerked his arm free from the man's grasp and glanced around the room. Laerys had pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her hands as tears spilled through her fingers. Naera was gazing at him with something he couldn't place, not disappointment nor was it sadness. Perhaps it was dolefulness, or pity. He wanted to care. He wished he could care, but _all he wanted _was his brother. Not the bastard boy Aurane his father left in a serving girl one drunken night five years ago. He wanted his true born, violet eyed brother who babbled his name and pulled his hair.

Monford clenched his fists and stalked towards the door in a cold fury. He wrenched open the door when a small voice froze him. "Daemion. . ?" Aerion had woken with the crashing dishes, bleary eyed and fatigued. He had turned to face the room. Monford stared at his eyes, they were sea-green just like his grandmother's, and served as a painful reminder.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Jacaerys had been lost to the lions and hounds.

XXX

He was Lord Velaryon now, Master of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides, and she was his Lady Velaryon.

_Bleak days for bleak ceremonies,_ Monford pondered. The sky was a dark gray and cast a gloomy light into the castle. The spring rain had been relentless sheets of ice for days, chilling the halls night and day. Servants and men of the garrison could be heard sniffling and cursing as colds ran rampant through the castle. He heard Laerys sniffle at the window and Aerion sneeze beside her. They seemed to be trying to be as silent as possible as he reread a raven's message.

_Damn rat,_ he thought as he read the scrawling print of Grand Maester Pycelle. He never liked the wrinkled prune, the old man always smelt of balms and ointments. Herbs from gods know where always stained his hands green, yellow, and sometimes purple. Monford had broken his arm falling from his horse once, it had been fractured in three places. Pycelle spoke to his mother and father and told them the best thing to do was remove his arm. Despite the doses of milk of the poppy he ingested he firmly refused that option and went through with the resetting of the bones; it was painful as all hell but he didn't regret it. He didn't trust any of Pycelle's diagnoses afterward.

The message was simple, they wanted Laerys Targaryen bound to someone. They couldn't go ahead and kill her, no, they'd run that course with the rest of her family. Robert Baratheon ordered their immediate marriage and declaration of fealty. They had yet to fulfill the second.

Monford and Laerys had been expected to spend more time with each other as husband and wife than before. It was made difficult by the stiff tensions and fresh sorrows between the two since his outburst. Consummation of their premature marriage and the matter of heirs was delayed on practicality. There had been no feasts, no songs to be heard, just an empty sept of stone and seven witnesses.

The chamber door was opened by a nanny who insisted that Aerion be taken to bed. As the toddler was led away by the woman Monford caught his eyes. Sea-green met his own violet. The rest of Aerion's tale was explained to him earlier. Darreth, after finding Jacaerys dead, was confronted by Lord Varys with the hooded Aerion. Jacaerys had been mistaken for Prince Aerion by an anger hardened soldier. The eunuch all but begged him to take the young prince to Driftmark as Jacaerys Velaryon. They had fled through the Iron Gate and made for Duskendale. With the help of a bag of silver, a Myrish ship took them to Driftmark.

Laerys snatched the message from Monford's fingers and jumped out of his reach in a deft motion. Monford threw himself halfway across the desk to retrieve it before he realized it was her. He sat back with a huff and a flick of his wrist. "What are you doing?"

"You've been staring at these messages for hours." She stated incredulously.

"And? They detail the losses we suffered in the war, I was writing replies-"

"You haven't made a move for the quill or ink for an hour. Monford, you need to leave these matters for your uncle and maester Broden, seven hells, even my grandmother; they know how to deal with these," she said, practically scolding him. He made to reach for the parchment again but she slapped his fingers away. "You need to rest."

"My father said a good lord puts his people's needs above his own," Monford pouted. He stood and crossed his arms.

"My father said yours was a fool," she retorted as she turned away. Her red skirts flourished with her movements and began to glow as she neared the hearth. The letter fell from her hand and into the smoldering embrace. The flames flared and spat as the words curled in on themselves and were eaten away. "You won't need to respond to that one." A smile emerged on her lips.

Next, she padded to the small window overlooking the hall. Seven candles stood in the sill, one for each of the Seven he suspected but the names she whispered were not those of the gods. "Shaerys, Vaenar, Daemion, Rhaenys, Elia." She lit a candle with every name before stopping on the sixth. Laerys extended her hand to him, beckoning Monford. He quirked an eyebrow before moving to her side. Laerys placed the match in his hand and began to explain. "Every night my father was gone my mother would light a candle for him, she always told me it would give him peace wherever he was and guide him to the ones who loved him."

She lead his hand to light the remaining wicks. A lump formed in his throat as he uttered two names, "Lucerys, Jacaerys." The little blazes budded to life. _My father and baby brother, lost but not forgotten._

"They deserve more than anger and grief," Laerys said with a sad smile. "Don't they?"

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**A/N: How was that? I'd love to hear what people have to say so just drop a review and tell me what ya think, I don't bite!**

**This whole story is a kind of experiment so hop on the wagon with me and see how this goes**


	2. Aerion I

Aerion

297, Driftmark

The white seahorse was whipped by bitter flurries of the bay. Aerion's ears stung and his fingers tingled from where the winds bit and clawed. They tasted like salt as they scraped through his throat. Aerion loved the ocean, ever changing, fierce, free.

The harbour was crawling with men, loading and unloading ships. Accents of the Free Cities flew from sailors lips, whiffs of spices were blown about with the wind and Aerion almost felt as if he were already in Pentos, if it weren't for the excited chattering of his nephew behind him. His family had come to see them off across the Narrow Sea.

"-roads. I want to ride a donkey. Will Uncle ride a donkey in Pentos? I think he is too tall for them, not me though, I'm just right," Monterys stated almost to himself. He was gazing up at Laerys with expectation but turned away once he found her whispering into her husband's ear. He was no more than five and already keen beyond his years. Monterys was more his mother than his father, which put a smile on Aerion's face, it was a chance to see how Laerys could have been at his age.

Neither he nor Ser Darreth had much to carry, this was a subtle trip after all. No men were hauling chests full of fabric and steel on the ship or leading war horses over the gangplanks, no he carried his belongings in a sack over his shoulder. He had been told that Monford had taken care of everything and he should not worry about anything, but he did anyway. In truth he had been looking forward to this mission of sorts. It gave Aerion a chance to finally see things apart from Driftmark as Aerion Targaryen, not Jacaerys Velaryon. It was for his protection Laerys had always explained when he complained of the island's dreariness and his need for air that did not taste of fish and salt. There had been one time earlier in the year where he left the island, the tourney for Prince Joffrey's twelfth name-day. But even then he was Jacaerys; not Aerion. From as early as he could remember people called him Jacaerys, it never sounded right to him, it never felt right, and that hurt. He knew his name, Prince Aerion Targaryen, but they didn't; to them he was a boy of a minor house that happened to descend from dragonlords of old. For a long time that's all that mattered to him, that _he was_ a dragonlord.

The Tyroshi captain's words to Monford were curt and heated; their departure was much of the same. Laerys offered him words of encouragement and a gift. She slipped the silver dragon egg into his bag as soon as all the crewmen were preoccupied. "Do not let this be a dead weight, it is not stone yet," she had whispered before he could argue. At the captain's harsh words to his crew Laerys ushered Aerion onto the gangplank without another word. With a final glance back before disappearing below deck he caught a glimpse of Monford handing Darreth a sealed scroll. Hollers and curses were thrown at Darreth as he climbed aboard, the scroll no where to be seen.

Two men were waiting for his ship by the time Aerion stepped onto the pier. He handed the captain a piece of silver half heartedly then drew his hood further over his head, shadowing his eyes and hiding his hair. In truth he wanted to be as far from the vessel and crew as quick as possible. He was sure Bones, a skinny and greasy boy, was employed by a crewmember to steal coin from passengers like him and they all spoke in slaver's tongue. Aerion was never sure if it was indeed him they murmured and snickered about but he had heard 'Blueboy' and 'Cheekbones' thrown about when they thought he wasn't crouching behind barrels eavesdropping. He had found himself curled up around his dragon egg in his bed on multiple occasions, out of fear that Bones would snatch it from his cabin. The only comfort Aerion found was in his fellow Westerosi; a young on the run septa with very voluminous breasts, and Ser Darreth. She rambled about how her father found her fucking a Velaryon guard in the castle stables twice, which they both had a good laugh at because the guard was a friend of Aerion's and he'd heard the tale from him.

One man, the older by the looks of it, held two saddled horses while the younger, copper-skinned and scarred, held one. "You're late," the black-haired man growled. He looked a bit aged with his lined forehead and silver threaded hair. Aerion was taken aback slightly, he had thought the man would carry a Essosi accent but he sounded from the Seven Kingdoms.

"What did you expect sir? That I slowed the winds to spend a few extra hours with those precious slavers?" He retorted as he tucked his belongings into a saddlebag. He took the dark bay's reins from the second man, more a boy really, with a sidelong glance. The boy kept his gaze low and remained silent. The man frowned. Aerion saw him glancing over Darreth as a person would if they were trying to remember something or someone. "What's your name?"

"Haldon," his escort ground out.

Aerion climbed atop his horse. "Haldon? Haldon what? Westerosi with punctuality like yours tend to be noble, so, Haldon what?"

"Just Haldon to you." Haldon's voice betrayed nothing but his irritation. "And yourself? I don't believe you've given me your name."

The glance from Darreth was enough of a warning for Aerion. "Jacaerys Velaryon." Haldon's brow rose with doubt then twitched his head.

"A Velaryon? You're far from home." He said as he crossed his arms. The boy at Aerion's horse's head began to shift and fidget with unease. Haldon was trying to goad Aerion into a fumble of words which could reveal who he was. But Aerion had been prepared for questions about Jacaerys Velaryon after having to repeat the same answers to his sister over and over. "What brings a highborn boy like yourself across the sea to Pentos?"

"Trade negotiations," Aerion said smoothly. "My brother desires many of the foreign goods of Pentos, the likes of which never reach Westeros. . . Now, Haldon Just-to-Me, if I'm to meet with the Magister at a respectable hour we had best find a fourth horse for my friend-"

Darreth spoke up then, "My lord, I have separate business to attend to with Haldon, on your brother's orders." Aerion gave him a cold glare. He did not remember Darreth nor Monford ever mentioning them splitting ways. "I spoke to you of it shortly after we left."

Aerion felt his ears growing hot. His fingers tightened around the leather reins and the bay shifted beneath him. He cocked his head and smiled stiffly. "I don't recall that," he paused. It was the letter. The parchment Monford handed to Darreth on Driftmark. Aerion hadn't seen it since then or thought to question what it was, he thought it was a letter to Viserys. He knew now and felt a twinge of bitterness. He wondered if Laerys knew. Surely she did. He continued with false recollections. "Oh, was that before I nearly fell overboard?" he forced a laugh.

"You had several drinks with the captain that night," Darreth reminded him.

"Ah yes," he lied. He did not drink on that ship, let alone sit with the captain. The position Darreth had put him in forced them both to continue this play for Haldon, for Aerion's sake. They were beyond cautious, any Westerosi in Essos could have ties with the Spider and if word reached the small council in Westeros of the Velaryons involvement with the remaining Targaryens Driftmark would be put to the torch like it once was in times of old and the House put to the sword, even little Monterys who can barely ride his pony. "When will I be seeing you next then, or am I to return to Driftmark without you?"

Haldon glanced to Darreth as the knight spoke, "The Magister has offered his hospitality for as long as we need, I will find you there." Darreth and Haldon mounted their horses and took their leave. Aerion received a final nod from Darreth as they rode through the crowd. From afar Aerion saw the two men hunched closer to each other, clearly speaking under their breath.

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**A/N: Well I expected that be longer but I felt bad for not doing anything with this for awhile. I wanted to add more to the ending (have to say I'm not the happiest with myself about it) but oh well I guess**

**Before I head off I'd like to thank Sliirt for your review! It helped me a lot and I look forward to anymore advice you have for me!**


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